


One More Jam

by 94mercy



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: ((((i'll add more tags as i go))))), Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe-Roller Derby, In which Yuri Plisetsky is still a little twerp but has a way to take his anger out, M/M, Multi, Roller Derby, Slow Burn, Violence, and JJ is still The Worst, and Otabek is still ridiculously attractive, as much violence as occurs at your typical derby i guess, cursing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-11-08 20:27:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11089308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/94mercy/pseuds/94mercy
Summary: It’s the pounding of his skates and the shoulders to the ribs and the friction-burning wheels and the lingering smell of feet and sweat and blood and victory that makes it home, home,home.---aka: the roller derby au nobody asked for





	1. In which Yuri Plisetsky falls in love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, no one wanted this au but it got brought up in a yoi panel I went to and I've been thinking about it ever since??? And here we are a week later with at least 6 chapters planned whoops.
> 
> All of my knowledge of roller derby comes from a week of googling and watching Whip It once like 8 years ago. If someone's better versed and I'm messing it up, please let me know!!! 
> 
> Everyone is basically aged up 2-3 years except the older dudes who are aged down just a bit so they're not 30 hanging out with 19-year-olds. Yuri's 19, Otabek's 21. If I need to make a list for the others, I will. The first couple of chapters will be a little non-linear for backstory to take place, but it'll be pretty easy to tell when it's a flashback situation.
> 
> This is my first fic on AO3 so I don't know what I'm doing. It's also hella un-beta'd. I'm sorry.

It’s the pounding of his skates and the shoulders to the ribs and the friction-burning wheels and the lingering smell of feet and sweat and blood and _victory_ that makes it home, home,

_home_.

More than his little apartment (bigger, emptier, now that his grandfather’s gone), more than his childhood home (lost to land developers years ago), more than Viktor’s ridiculously large house (an overstatement of his wealth and boredom); this, the dirt and the grime and the bruises, _this_ _rink_ is Yuri Plisetsky’s home.

Life doesn’t feel quite right without the shoulder-shaped bruises pressed into his ribs or the blisters from a too-long skate session raised like mountains along his toes and he wouldn’t have it any other way. It was _fun_ when he was younger, sure, but now everything—the crowd, the adrenaline, the competition, the pain—is cathartic. It’s the only way he feels truly alive.

He thinks for the millionth time as he slides around the track that everything else could be taken from him and he could still be happy as long as he had derby. School is a bust that he’s only entertaining because his grandfather insisted with his dying breath and even Yuri isn’t petty and self-concerned enough to ignore that. He _knows_ that a business degree will be useful (probably) but it’s hardly necessary when Viktor’s been trying to shove him into a management position at one of his clothing stores since he was old enough to work.

Which is, quite frankly, another waste of time that only cuts into his life rink-side. If it were any other job, he’d have left it ages ago. The only saving grace from the monotony of retail—no matter how “high-fashion”—is that Viktor understands his priorities and gives him the bare minimum of hours (at the highest maximum wage) to keep him going and to fund his endeavors. It would probably be more of an issue if Viktor didn’t commit almost as much time to derby as Yuri does.

The older man is waiting for him at the edge of the pack ahead, one arm stretched out towards him while the other fights off a woman twice his size. She elbows Viktor once in the side—which would be illegal if the refs were paying better attention, but they only care so much in these dirty underground matches—then goes tumbling out of bounds with a well-directed shoulder to the gut by a whooping Mila.

“Catch the whip, Yuri!”

Yuri can hardly hear her over the roaring of the crowd but sees the words on her lips, realizes what she’s saying as soon as he notices that his team has opened enough of a space in the pack for him to shoot through if they time it well enough.

He pushes himself as fast as he can, grabs Viktor’s sweaty palm in his own, and is launched forward before he can breathe, flying through the bodies clashing around him.

It’s exhilarating, the colors and patterns and angles and sounds passing him in a blur and he _knows_ that’s a grand slam, he _knows_ he’s passed everyone with ease and slid by that other star adorned helmet and he _knows_ that they’ll win the game. There’s half a bout left but a whip that successful and clean always puts the team in mood the pulls them out on top.

They’re not perfect as a team, but tonight, they’re the best.

* * *

“Roller derby? _Really_?” Yuri had been understandably appalled when Mila cornered him on his walk home from school, ranting on and on about how _cool_ everyone looked and how he _had_ to make a team with her and she would never speak to him again if he didn’t. “How’d you even find out about this?”

She huffed, flipped her hair out of her eyes, and gave him her standard I-can’t-believe-you’re-making-me-explain-instead-of-immediately-aggreeing look. “You know Georgi?”

“Your _boss_?” If he could even be called that. From what Yuri understood, Mila’s part-time job at the movie theater consisted of sneaking out back to smoke with Georgi and stealing popcorn to bring home.

“Uh-huh.” The _duh_ was heavily implied. “He’s on a co-ed team at the rink downtown and they’re looking for new members. He showed me some videos on his phone and it’s _amazing_ , Yuri, honestly it’s _so badass_.” There were stars in her eyes. Yuri knew, at that point, there was no use arguing. Once Mila set her mind to something, he could only get dragged with her until she wore herself out.

More to get her to shut up about it than for any other reason, he agreed to go watch a match with her that weekend, but _only_ if he could bring Viktor. It wasn’t that he was particularly fond of the guy, but his grandfather certainly wouldn’t entertain the idea and Viktor was the next-closest thing to a responsible adult that Yuri had access to, even if “responsible” was a bit of a stretch. Still, they’d been family friends for long enough that Yuri trusted him to keep him relatively intact.

He should have known better.

Viktor brought his _obnoxiously cheery_ (and moderately creepy) college friend Christophe along for the ride and the pair teased Yuri endlessly about how well he would do with his willowy limbs and delicate features in such a hardcore sport. The teasing only got worse the more frustrated Yuri became and he was screaming at them before the car even reached the heart of the city.

There were too many seedy people at the place they ended up at. Too many tattoos and asphalt burned arms and shaved heads and piercings and if Yuri wasn’t grumpy before, he certainly got there with all of the shoving and needling from the strangers.

“Back _the fuck_ off,” he hissed for at least the thirtieth time since entering the rink. The man who jostled him just gave him a little smirk and went on his way like he didn’t care about bumping into everyone’s personal space. No one there seemed to care much about personal space.

It might have been Mila’s plan all along to scare the shit out of him, he quickly realized once they’d all met up and found seats. That could be the only explanation as to why they were sitting in what he later learned were called “suicide seats”, close enough to the action that Yuri could see the flesh on the skaters’ legs reddening around their fishnets, or why they were at a match that wasn’t even officially sanctioned, but some sort of underground race to the death situation where fights were encouraged instead of shut down.

Viktor was immediately enamored, of course, shouting to Yuri over the roar of the crowd every time something even mildly interesting happened and Georgi and Mila were over the moon, already discussing strategy for something no one had agreed to, thank you.

It was, frankly, a fucking mess.

It was loud, _too loud_ , too busy, too everything. The skaters were all _way too close_ to him, especially skating at the speed they were, and he just about lost it when one of the roller girls shoved a _very solid_ man directly into his lap. A stray elbow pounded into his nose and he saw black and tasted blood and _holy shit hold on a second_.

The body in his lap leapt back into action before Yuri could really grasp what was happening and he was jumping up with him, screaming and shouting along with the crowd despite the blood jamming up his breath and nothing had ever been as crystal clear as it was in that moment with his face pulsating and his pain receptors numbing out and his most primal instincts kicking in.

Viktor tried dragging him away from the match to clean up and make sure he wasn’t going to bleed out, but Yuri refused to leave. He was sucked in. Committed. Everything was so real and gritty and sharp and maybe it was because his brain was a little scrambled, but he _loved it_. Every second of the skate dragged him in further and further and maybe this was something he could give a chance.

“If I don’t make it to sixteen because of this, I swear to god, I will haunt you for the rest of your life,” he told Mila after they’d made it back through the bodies to the parking lot. Her face lit up in that familiar way that made his stomach drop to his knees.

This was, perhaps, a _very bad idea_ but, at fifteen years old, Yuri Plisetsky had fallen in love for the first time. 

* * *

It’s the last jam.

They’re tied— _of course they’re tied_ —and the boy standing next to Yuri is grimacing and spitting and leaking vitriol like he’s popped a hose. All Yuri does is smirk around his mouth guard and turn to face the pack.

He can just see the ostentatious purple shorts Chris bedazzled with their team name through the legs of the other team and thinks that he might be able to squeeze around the wall they’re forming if he weaves inside. Maybe a solid push through the middle will get him through—

But it’s too late to plan anymore. First whistle and the pack is off. The rubber of Yuri’s toe stop digs into the rink and it’s a wonder it can hold the tension from his muscles ready to snap if the ref would just _let them go already_.

Second whistle.

Yuri shoots forward. He nudges a shoulder into the other jammer, just enough to throw him off his game without ruining his own momentum, and is ripping off after the pack, sticking with the original plan to duck inward. His teammates have walled off the other blockers to let Yuri slip around unscathed—“And The Rush’n Punk has become lead jammer!”—and he pounds his way back around the track.

The other kid is nothing, can barely keep up at this point in the game. Yuri is far enough ahead that he could come to a full stop and still pull out enough points to win and he’s laughing, absolutely _cackling_ as he weaves back into the pack, flips the other jammer the double bird, and pulls ahead to the front with an ease that could only be attributed to a kick-ass team.

The refs call the points, the announcers follow up, and Yuri doesn’t even wait for the other jammer to fight through the pack before he’s tapping both of his hips, calling an end to the jam and bringing home a win for his team. “At 170 to 167, Arsenal’s Angels has won!” _Again_.

The cheers are deafening even with the locker room doors shut tight. They’d stayed out on the track as long as they could, waving and cheering and celebrating along with the crowd until the exhaustion started to set in and they had to support each other just to walk twenty feet to change.

“ _Amazing_ ,” Phichit gushes, peeling his torn team tank over his head. “Yuri, that last play was _heavenly_ I can’t believe you just slid through like it didn’t even matter like how can you see gaps like you do I don’t understand there wasn’t enough room—” he’s pulling out his phone as he talks and Yuri scoots as far away as he can to avoid having to watch an instant-by-instant replay of the entire game.

“If it weren’t for us, he wouldn’t have been able to get past _one_ of those guys.” Despite the jab, Mila’s absolutely glowing across the room.

Viktor pauses in unlacing his skates, tapping a finger against his chin. “They weren’t as difficult as I was expecting. It was sort of a letdown, wasn’t it?” Yuri hums in agreement. He peels his striped thigh-highs off his legs, promising himself, for the hundredth time, that he won’t wear something so thick again. They look cool as hell but sweaty knees definitely are _not_.

Mila slings an arm around Yuri’s shoulders and if he weren’t so exhausted, he would shrug her off out of sheer principal. “It doesn’t matter if they’re the hardest around or the easiest around. As long as we beat them, who cares?”

She ruffles Yuri’s hair out of his ponytail and sinks both hands into the shaved sides to rub annoyingly into the skin when he shouts out in indignation. They may be friends, but she’s always had a penchant for touching Yuri way more than he ever wanted.

“I’m not a fucking dog, Mila. Stop petting me like one.” There’s definitely not any sort of affection in his growl and she definitely doesn’t catch on with an ear-busting screech.

It’s seconds from turning into an all-out-brawl; Mila climbing closer on the bench to drape herself fully over Yuri’s body, Yuri’s shouts getting louder as he tries to pick her off without hurting her (unlikely), Georgi attempting (and failing) to mediate the situation, Viktor and Christophe’s over exuberant laughter ringing around the room, Phichit struggling to get his phone back out of Minako’s hands to film the chaos, Seung-gil trying desperately to ignore the entire situation and dress out before he gets roped into team-bonding activities.

It’s a scene that, however chaotic, makes them feel most comfortable outside of the rink. They’re a well-oiled, if a bit technically messy, machine when the skates go on, but as soon as they’re off, they become the dysfunctional family Yuri never thought he wanted. It’s comfortable, kind, _obnoxious as hell_ , and something Yuri would never mention out loud that he loves.

One of Yuri’s hands are hooked into Mila’s still-clasped helmet, pulling her, squawking, towards the ground when the locker room door slams open with a bang louder than it should be considering the party that is apparently unfolding on the track.

“No one’s allowed back here—” Georgi begins, his words choked off by the raucous laughter of their interlopers.

And _fuck_ , the last thing Yuri wants to deal with when he’s riding his winning high is _JJ fucking Leroy_ and his roller punk lackeys.

“ _Great_ job out there, guys, _honestly_.” Somehow, the sarcasm in JJ’s words take some of the honesty out of his statement. His blue eyes are shining with that superior sort of humor he carries everywhere as he strolls in, one arm is tucked snuggly around his _stupid fiancée_. The rest of the team is in their dumb red and white team jackets, casual like they belong in a place like this.

Yuri wants to puke.

“Get the fuck out of here. We don’t have time for you tonight,” he hisses, pushing himself up to meet JJ’s height. “You have no reason to be here, so do us a favor and scamper off before we make you.” The playful mood has disappeared, replaced by a tension that could only come from years of rivalry.

JJ’s Royal Rollers have been a bane of the Angels’ existence since they started skating competitively. Despite Yuri’s team sticking to underground tournaments (where money was on the line instead of _prestige_ ) and JJ’s team being collegiately backed and competing almost exclusively in the official circuit, the Rollers had taken an immediate disliking to the group of mismatched players and have haunted their lives every step of the way.

From gentle teasing whenever the members happened to run into each other at school or around town to flat out sabotage (from the Rollers first, obviously, though Yuri and Minako made sure to reciprocate), their rivalry was something of a local legend and any time the gods deigned it an unlucky enough time to pit the two together in any sort of scrimmage, people would flock from all around the tristate area to watch.

Which meant that beating them in an underground match paid out better on the rare occasions they were able to face off, but it was hardly worth the constant prodding and bitching that came with it.

“We just stopped in to congratulate you, didn’t we?” JJ motions towards the team hovering behind him and most of them pitch in an unenthused agreement. The rest of them weren’t half-bad (not that you’d find Yuri admitting it), but the sheer fact that they willingly chose to be on a team with JJ is enough to sink them to his level. “It was a fun game. Messy, but entertaining. You’ll have to get better if you ever want to _actually_ beat us.”

Yuri almost spits out a list of the times they’ve beaten JJ into the ground but knows he’ll just get angrier when JJ inevitably argues that it doesn’t count because “underground derby doesn’t play by the same rules as _real_ derby.”

“Thank you for the congratulations,” Viktor, ever the polite man, “but we still have some things to go over for the night. If you wouldn’t mind.”

To Yuri’s immense surprise, JJ holds up his hands in surrender and gestures for his team to make their way out. “Of course, of course.” He turns to follow, pauses, then throws a shit-eating grin over his shoulder. “But first, I’d really like you to meet our new pivot. You’ll be seeing a lot of him.” He steps to the side, just enough to allow a shorter, solid-looking man to ease out of the group.

He’s wearing neither the same smug smile as JJ nor the sheepish looks of some of the others—rather, he looks entirely disinterested, not even bothering to glance at the people in various states of undress and instead has his eyes rather fixated on the ceiling. He’s good-looking, Yuri guesses, in a way that anyone who shares a haircut with JJ Leroy can be (and _no_ , Yuri’s not in that same boat despite the shaved sides of his head; it’s _way longer_ on top and _cool_ and _totally different_ , thank you). Dark clothes, dark hair, dark eyes; he’s not anything particularly special, as far as Yuri can tell.

“This,” JJ preens, throwing an arm over the man, “is Otabek Altin. He’s something of a hero back home and has blessed us with his presence on our team.”

“The Royal Rollers are on a _whole new level_ now,” his fiancée pipes in ( _what was her name? Isadork?_ ) and, for the first time, the rest of the team actually seems excited. Otabek coughs, scratches at a spot below his ear, but still seems otherwise unaffected by the pissing contest JJ’s putting on.

“A whole new level still isn’t going to put you anywhere _close_ to us.” Yuri spits and hisses and growls his way through, stepping close enough to shove a long finger into JJ’s chest. “You’re still just a bunch of weak-ass bitches who need to hide behind technicalities to get anywhere in the game.”

JJ just laughs, turns again, and walks through his teammates to head the group back out. “Keep thinking that, kitten—” Yuri’s absolutely _steaming_ at that ridiculous nickname and it’s only Mila’s hand on his that keeps him from shooting forward to show JJ his claws, “—but we’ll revisit this after you’ve seen what we’ve been working on.”

And he’s gone just as quickly as he came, the Rollers following after him as though he really is the king he claims to be.

Otabek, however, hovers towards the back of the group. He catches Yuri’s eye, gaze somewhere between amused and questioning, and Yuri’s certain he sees a hint of a smile seconds after Yuri barks a poisonous, “The fuck you want?” at him before he, too, leaves the Angels to a deflated win and an impending sense of dread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come hang out with me on [tumblr](http://94mercy.tumblr.com) and be my bff


	2. In which Yuuri Katsuki isn't half bad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (or: the one where I love Yuuri Katsuki too much)

Viktor Nikiforov _simpers_. His eyes shine and his hands never leave his hair and he blushes constantly and Yuri hates every second of it.

It’s a fair trade off, he supposes, to get to pay less than nothing to use the roller rink closest to their neighborhood for practice. Things are easier when he can walk to practice after work or class instead of having to hop on a less-than-clean bus or pay out the ass for a cab. Still, Yuri thinks he’d rather one of those two options instead of having to gag over Viktor’s overindulgence in Yuuri Katsuki, one of the skating instructors at the rink and the current Bane of Yuri’s Existence.

It’s not just that Yuri feels a bit weirded out that his longtime friend is absolutely obsessed with someone who shares his name (in essence), it’s not even that Viktor has gotten in the habit of calling him “Yurio” whenever he’s in the presence of both men at the same time; no, the _real problem_ is the actual vomit-inducing flirting they subject Yuri and the rest of the Angels to whenever they’re within thirty feet of each other.

Blushing and stammering Yuuri will swoon over every word Viktor manages to string together in between smiles too big for his face and it’s always cutting into precious seconds of practice time and, on more than one occasion, causing a traffic jam on the track when Viktor gets a little too lost in Yuuri’s eyes from across the room.

The worst part of all is that they’re not even _dating_.

“Please just fuck him and get it over with,” Yuri groans for the millionth time, nursing a fresh bruise on his shins from Viktor tripping over his own feet and flailing directly into Yuri’s path at top speed. There’s a general grumble of consensus from the rest of the team.

“ _Yuri_.” Viktor seems way too scandalized for a man who had carefully outlined exactly how he would do that during a night of heavy drinking. “Yuuri Katsuki is not a man to simply be _bedded_. He’s a man to be wooed! To be loved! To be car—”

“It’s been _four years_.”

Viktor waves a hand dismissively and stares at the object of his affection from across the rink. His eyes practically become cartoon hearts. “Romance is not an easy thing. You’ll understand one day.” Yuuri glances back at them mid-conversation with Yuuko, catches Viktor’s eye, and turns a vibrant, frankly concerning shade of red.

_Disgusting._

“Can the two of you stop bitching for, like, ten seconds?” Mila taps on both of their foreheads with a closed fist, harder than she probably should if Viktor’s flinching is any indication. Yuri has long since gone numb to Mila’s physical attacks.

He pushes her hand away, shoots one last glare at swooning Viktor, and turns back to their post-skate meeting. “I would _love to_.”

“I was _trying_ to say that we need to boost up interest in the next few matches. We need new uniforms,” she picks at the holes dotting her own jersey, eyes the accidental splits and strains in Phichit’s that tear into the artfully done slits he’d originally placed there. “We haven’t paid the Nishigoris more than a few bucks a month since the beginning of the season and I know they won’t make a fuss, but they’re letting us skate here instead of keeping it open for free skate and that can’t be good for their business.”

Yuri doesn’t bring up how they make more than enough with Katsuki and that Minami kid sucking in children from single-parent households for weekly lessons who are more interested in the instructors than the instruction.

“We’re against the Battlers at the end of the week and the team from Ann Arbor, uhm—”

Chris cuts in, bored, “The Ann Arbor Artillery,” as he continues re-bedazzling the team’s shorts.

“Yes, they contacted Georgi about setting up a match for the next week, but neither of the teams are big name enough to pull in more fans.”

“Uh, about that,” Georgi pipes up from the back, standing and scratching at the back of his neck. “Artillery pulled out? They, uhm—” his voice cracks and that’s enough of an explanation for the rest of the team.

Georgi famously gets attached to and subsequently dumped by at least one member from every derby team in the tristate area, which has, equally famously, become a bit of an issue for the Angels. At best, it makes for a more interesting bout when one to three of their opponents are gunning for blood and, at worst, it makes for no match at all.

It’s typically the latter option.

“I can’t _believe_ you.” Yuri can, of course, believe him. Georgi’s unfortunate penchant for ruining romance has been at the top of his annoyances list for years, directly under Mila’s penchant for wandering hands and Christophe’s penchant for stripping at the most inopportune times (read: _always_ ).

Georgi scrapes a well-aimed kneepad from his face (courtesy of one Yuri Plisetsky) and is about to defend himself, red-faced and teary-eyed, when Lilia Baranovskaya makes herself known with a freezing wind and a cloud of expensive perfume. She ignores the stragglers still skating around the rink this close to closing; the intimidating _tap-tap-tap_ of her heels striking the wood is enough to scatter them away.

“You’re not focusing on what you should be.” Lilia drops a flyer on an empty spot on the benches they’d commandeered, though no one makes any move to reach for it. Even Yuri knows not to draw any unnecessary attention to himself when Lilia’s lips are pulled tight into a frown.

Lilia Baranovskaya is a pleasant enough woman. No-nonsense, dry, stern, but pleasant. In her younger years, she was a derby legend, skating through the competitive circuit as Pointe N’ Shoot and carving a name for herself as one of the baddest women in the sport and an even badder coach for up-and-comers in the game.

It was barely a year into the official formation of Arsenal’s Angels when Lilia found them and demanded to be their coach; no reasoning, no explanation, just a fierce request delivered in that authoritative tone of hers. No one dared turn down a living legend, regardless of how confused they might be at her motivation. She got a team without explanation and they got the coach of a lifetime.

Yuri will never pretend that he doesn’t love Lilia. Her barked orders, her insistence on perfection, her strategy, her endless love for the sport that stole Yuri’s teenage heart; without her, Yuri and the Angels would be nothing.

It’s because of this that they clam up and turn, in tandem, to face her, sobered by their collective respect for her knowledge and experience.

“You’ve been paying too much attention to yourselves,” she finally barks after eyeing each of them for weakness. “You’ve lost sight of the competition by thinking too highly of your ability and you’ve missed something _very important._ ”

Lilia digs a sharp heel into the paper on the bench. Yuri’s eyes flicker to the flier.

 _No_.

Even around the sharp point of Lilia’s heel, he can make out JJ’s grinning face.

* * *

“ _No no no no no_ —” Yuri bangs his head against the table with each repeated curse until his teeth are rattling and he _almost_ forgets what he’s complaining about.

Mila doesn’t pause thumbing through her trashy gossip magazine to check on him. Traitor. “It’s not _that_ bad.” She doesn’t even sound that convincing. Yuri falls deeper into his Pit of Despair.

“I don’t understand,” he hears Yuuri whisper to Viktor and, usually, he would make it a point to shoot the stupid pig the ugliest glare he could possibly muster, but with all of this hatred for the world bubbling inside of him, he can’t even manage a mild growl.

Of _course_ JJ fucking Leroy would decide to smash onto Yuri’s turf. Of _course_ he’d decide to do it in the most thorough way possible and of _course_ he’d had to make it abundantly clear to everyone exactly what his plan was.

“Yuri’s upset that the Rollers are cruising the underground,” Mila mumbles and Yuri knows her well enough that the sour note in her tone doesn’t go completely unnoticed.

“It’s not just that!” He’s leapt to his feet without realizing it, almost knocking over the table and subsequently everyone’s coffees in his rage. “It wouldn’t be that big of a deal if they just dipped in for a little match here or there.” That’s a lie, of course. He’d be equally pissed if JJ’s crew just _showed up_ to a match but it’s the extent of the situation that really has him hot. “They’re taking all of our matches! They’re _advertising_ all of theirs like this is some sort of _sporting event_.”

No one in the underground scene advertises. Matches get around by word of mouth, maybe have a shakily made announcement tacked up in the frequented bars and roller rinks, but none of the teams make official schedules outlining their every move. Only the officially sanctioned teams do that shit and the fact that JJ would tarnish the proud name of their culture with his father-funded team-sports-rule attitude is _bull_.

“They’re bringing in _real refs_ for their matches and pretending like they own the place, like who the fuck? Do they think they are?” Yuri’s graduated into a full-blown rant now, waving his plastic cup around while he screams in the middle of one of the campus’s coffee shops. “There’s a _reason_ we skate in the underground. There’s a _reason_ for running things the way we do and it’s no fucking fair that they think they can just waltz right in and turn it all on its head—”

“Yurio, please.” Viktor gently lifts the foot that Yuri had planted on the table and swivels Yuri’s body until he stands properly. “You’re getting much too worked up about this.”

“Or _you’re_ not getting worked up enough.”

“Either way,” a sigh, a reminder that Viktor tries too hard to sound adult when Yuuri’s around, “there’s no point in throwing a fit about it. What’s happening is happening.”

Finally, Mila folds up her magazine. “Exactly. You’re focusing on the wrong thing, just like Lilia said.”

Yuri snorts. “What should I be focusing on, then?”

He expects it from Viktor, expects it from Mila, but he definitely does not expect quiet, unassuming Yuuri to lean forward, a conspiratorial gleam in his eye. “Beating them.”

* * *

Yuuri Katsuki had been working the front desk when a rag-tag group of teenagers (and Viktor, Christophe, and Georgi) had waltzed into the Nishigori’s skating rink with stars in their eyes and a plan for domination. He’d been the one to stumble and stutter about working out a deal to let a budding derby team practice on their track, the one to crumble under Yuri’s strong-armed argument about a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. He was also the one to blush under Viktor’s smooth addition that ultimately managed to get them a meeting with the management, though Yuri would always insist it was his passion alone that swayed the trembling clerk.

Yuuri Katsuki had been the one to convince his friend, Phichit Chulanont, that the same rag-tag group of teenagers slamming into each other until they bled four nights a week weren’t all that bad and that, maybe, he wouldn’t mind joining up with them. He’d been the one to suggest that their part-time instructor, Minako, might actually enjoy bashing into people every once in a while to get some anger out. He’d been the one to convince Yuuko Nishigori that it wouldn’t be that bad of an idea to rent out the rink to the team for a fraction of their winnings, if for no other reason than to have a loyal customer base.

Yuuri Katsuki had been the one to cheer them on when they were budding into the circuit, had been the one to help Christophe design their uniforms, had been the one to patch them up after their matches before they learned how to do it themselves, always with a shy smile and encouraging words.

For all intents and purposes, Yuuri Katsuki was an integral part of Arsenal’s Angels, but it still surprises Yuri when he jumps through the hoops that he does for the team.

He’s beaming at them as he comes back from the bouncer at some higher-quality rink in the better part of town, glowing as he jerks his thumb towards the man now holding open the door. “I may have promised that we’d get drinks after the match,” Yuuri blushes and fusses and Yuri resists the urge to join Viktor in smothering him in a hug.

It had been worse than pulling teeth trying to get into one of the matches the Rollers were competing in. Normally, these underground matches didn’t have tickets; you paid a cover fee at the door and if it got too full, you were shit out of luck—even if the concept of “full” didn’t much exist in these sorts of places.

All of the matches on that stupid flier floating around, though, were pre-reg events. Don’t show up with a ticket, don’t get in. Yuri’d almost fought the gatekeeper at last week’s match when he heard about this and had to be dragged off, literally kicking and screaming, by an embarrassed Mila and Georgi.

Of course it would be Yuuri Fucking Katsuki who accomplished the impossible and got them in to eye up the competition. Yuri made a mental note to not glare at him as much for at least a week.

The crowd in the rink is the familiar eclectic mix of tatted-up and dressed-up, the misfits who breathe the life and the businessmen who need an outlet and the collegiates who heard about this from a friend of a friend and just _had_ to see what it was all about. The crowd is the same but the mood is different, tamer. There are chains around the suicide seats to keep the skaters from flying into the audience, the refs are in actual stripes instead of whatever they decided to throw on before the match, there’s a digital scoreboard instead of chalk or marker scribbled on whatever surface they could find.

It’s an absolute mockery of the entire underground culture. Too proper, too stuffy. Yuri wants to throw something and start a fight, just to make it feel more familiar.

But they aren’t there to enjoy the match. They’re there to observe, to take notes on the competition to make sure that the Rollers don’t come close to wrecking the entire circuit.

The Angels find standing room towards the back and make themselves as comfortable as they can with their tensed up muscles and hawk-eyed stares.

The Rollers are fucking _good_.

Of course, Yuri already knew that, but seeing them in _his_ space on _his_ rinks with _his_ crowd, it becomes that much more obvious. They’re trained for professional play; pitting themselves against punks who don’t know the difference between penalties is an easy win for them.

What’s different, what’s _frustrating_ , is _how_ good they are. The Angels have met the Royal Rollers on the rink on three different occasions, all with underground rules and underground refs, and they’d won by less than three points each time. They make fun of the Angels for being too messy, but the Rollers were always too _stiff_ , too predictable and precise.

Now, _now_ they flow instead of stutter. JJ flies through the pack with his signature grin around his custom “King” mouthpiece and it’s fluid and beautiful and Yuri’s stabbed in the side with an unfamiliar jealousy at how he moves.

It takes approximately two more minutes to hone in on the source of the Rollers’ new magic.

It’s that _new kid_. Otabek Altin.

Yuri doesn’t know how it’s physically possible that bringing in _one new person_ could change a team so drastically, but that’s clearly the case. The team gravitates around Otabek like he’s their sun, moving in tandem with the little motions he makes to denote plans. He’s way too fucking good to be on a team like that.

“You’re right,” Mila breathes back and Yuri hadn’t even realized he’d been saying all of this out loud. The rest of the team seems to be in agreement, starry-eyed as they watch the bouts go on.

It’s clear by halftime that the other team doesn’t stand a chance, probably wouldn’t stand a chance even if they were playing by laxer underground rules. The Rollers are a machine and, if Yuri had to guess, this Otabek guy is the coil they’ve been missing the entire time.

In the other team’s defense, they don’t go down without a fight. The second half is all sly shin contact and accidental trips and if the refs had a keener eye for dirty fighters, the other team would be lucky to have one person on track during the entire jam. Even with the slights that have Yuri cheering and screaming for more, the Rollers dominate.

They’re _too fucking good_.

It’s almost no fun when the match is called in the Rollers’ favor.

The bodies around them filter out instead of rushing the rink for an after party and the Angels, dejectedly muttering among themselves, follow. Only Yuri stays silent, his bottom lip drawn between his teeth.

“I’ll catch a cab home,” he mutters to Viktor, who looks more tired than Yuri’s seen him since he graduated from school. Viktor doesn’t seem to have the heart to argue, just slips Yuri a crisp twenty for cab fare and drapes himself over Yuuri, groaning about how they’re going to get crushed by a bunch of assholes at their own game.

Yuri stretches himself against the bare stretch of cement wall next to the main entrance and waits. He kicks a booted toe against the sidewalk, taps his fingers against his leg, stares at the exiting patrons until they uncomfortably shift their gaze away. He waits until the parking lot is all but empty and the outdoor lights begin to snap off.

The losing team is the first to leave, filing out in much of the same way the Angels did. Loss is hard enough to handle, but loss in your own court, against a team who plays by different rules no less, is nothing short of crushing.

Yuri raises a salute to them as they pass.

Next is Nekola and the Crispino twins, the girl chatting on and on as if her life depends on it. Leo, who Yuri had interacted with on campus on more than one occasion, is practically dragging the Ji kid behind him like a dead body.

It’s a ridiculously long minute before the door slams open again. JJ _saunters_ out, one arm thrown around his fiancée, the other around Mr. Missing Link, Otabek Altin, who looks like he’s been saddled with JJ’s gear bag. The force of Yuri’s scoff could change the earth’s rotation.

“Leroy,” he shouts and steps away from the wall in what he hopes is a cool and vaguely threatening way. He’s been standing there too long, though, and his right leg tingles and stings and causes him to half-stumble. JJ laughs. Yuri snarls.

“What’s up, kitten?” There’s that _stupid fucking name_ again and it takes every ounce of self-control to not break JJ’s nose with one good punch. Just _one_ and he’d _shut up_ and Yuri wouldn’t have to see his stupid face around anymore—

Yuri takes a deep, stabilizing breath. He plasters his best ‘I’m-being-good-tonight’ smile on, pushes back all of his urges to murder. “Have a second to chat?”

“Naw, I have places to be.” His too-wide grin says casual, but his tone says this is a well-thought decision and _that_ makes Yuri’s stomach sink to the cement. “Beks is free if you really need to talk about something.” In one smooth movement, JJ lifts his bag off of Otabek’s shoulder and pushes him forward towards Yuri, whose cheeks have heated past mild annoyance straight into planning a slow torture territory.

JJ is gone with female!JJ by his side and the worst thing to ever happen to Arsenal’s Angels is left, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck, with a fuming Yuri.

“Uh.” Otabek says.

“Uh.” Yuri says back.

This wasn’t his plan. Confronting JJ, instilling the fear, really driving in the point of what underground derby stands for—all on the agenda. Trying to confront JJ’s scapegoat and Roller Derby Miracle instead— _not_ on the agenda.

They stare at each other in the washed-out light from the parking lot streetlamps. Yuri’s all teeth and edges, still trying to go with the hard mindset he’d planned, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult to keep that up under the careful scrutiny from the man opposite.

“You’re good. On the track, I mean,” Otabek says finally and Yuri isn’t sure why he’s so surprised at hearing him speak. “Do you have Snapchat?”

“We’re going to beat you.” It probably isn’t the response Otabek is expecting and Yuri, in turn, isn’t expecting the cocked-up eyebrow or the tug of a smirk. He pointedly chooses to ignore both that look and Otabek’s request. “ _I’m_ going to beat you.”

He’s challenging now, chin thrust up and chest puffed out and fists balled at his sides. It feels normal to talk shit and to bow up to the competition and Yuri’s prepared to keep the verbal battle going until it dissolves into a physical battle and he may be _scrappy_ but he’s never come out of a fight worse than the other guy. It feels _good_ to focus on intimidation instead of how good his rival team has become.

Otabek doesn’t seem to get it. Instead of stepping up to Yuri, instead of pushing back and snarling and swinging like he should be, he just shakes his head and runs his fingers through his hair and lets out this soft little laugh that has Yuri angrier than if he’d thrown an insult.

He shifts his bag higher with a shrug. He turns. He leaves. He throws over his shoulder in a way that Yuri can _hear_ the smile in his voice,

“If you say so.”

And Yuri Plisetsky _rages_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I pretend like I know what underground roller derby is all about  
> spoiler alert: I don't
> 
> anyway come talk to me on [tumblr](http://94mercy.tumblr.com) and tell me what ur fave roller derby names are


	3. In which Otabek Altin is not a distraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (or: the one in which JJ has no chill)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh okay so I’ve had this chapter partially written for like………………..months and just never got around to it??? It’s so all over the place and still feels incomplete and like I skipped parts and took too long on others but I figured that I’d put up some content to make up for my absence. Links to some derby info can be found at the end in case some of it’s confusing/wrong bc I still don’t have any firsthand derby experience whoops. Also I’ve had so much fun giving everyone derby names like they are so bad and so fun and I want to give everyone in existence a derby name. 
> 
> Anyway we’re here with 6k of mostly gratuitous skating scenes and Yuri being a salty bitch sorry guys. As usual, it’s un-beta’d and lightly edited.

The problem with threatening to beat someone at their own game is that they have to actually compete for that beating to happen. Mano a mano. Real, all-American competition.

The problem _there_ is that the team Yuri had threatened to beat (or more specifically, the _man_ on the team) wants nothing to do with him. Them. Their team. Their entire situation, honestly. At no point had the Rollers brought up running a game against the Angels and Yuri had still felt the need to run his mouth about stomping them into the ground.

“I mean, couldn’t you just ask them to set up a match?”

Yuri mentally takes back anything nice he’s ever said about Yuuri Katsuki. Even Viktor looks taken aback, one hand clutching over his heart as though the very concept itself mortally wounds him.

“It’s not that easy,” Christophe muses, not unkind but not flashing Yuuri his usually flirtatious grin. “Asking them for a match would just make us look desperate.”

“And we’re _not_ desperate.” Yuri interjects with a finger jammed into the poster the Rollers put out at the beginning of their hostile take-over. He digs his nail in until the paper splits around it. _Desperate_ isn’t exactly the word he’d use, no, but after his…discussion with Otabek Altin, Yuri can’t lie and say that he isn’t biting at the bit to prove that his words aren’t weightless.

They’ve been going around and around this conversation for hours. _Hours_. Hours spread out over _days_. Yuri is exhausted with possibilities and plans that are shot down as soon as they’re voiced. He’s been through four slushies, two plates of nachos, and is eyeing the frito pie Mila’s been picking on with increasing interest. He hasn’t thought this hard about anything since…well, _ever_ , and, as much as he needs this match to happen, he’s starting to lose hope.

Mila groans and tips back in her chair, scrubbing a hand over her face. Yuri takes the opportunity to steal a large bite from her food. “This isn’t something that is that important, right?” She peeks through her fingers and Yuri doesn’t even need to look around the group to know that they’re giving her the same incredulous look that he is. Of course it’s _important_. Their very pride as a team is on the line and the Rollers knew from the beginning that they’d end up in this situation.

It’s even more frustrating when Yuri knows that _they know_ that they have all the power here.

“I’ll do it. I’ll take one for the team. JJ and I had Physics together last year. I can probably talk to him about it,” Seung-gil mutters from the outskirts of the table. Yuri’s head whips in his direction, eyes wide. The kid hardly speaks at all, let alone to man up for something Yuri honestly didn’t think he cared too much about. He’s been under the impression this whole time that Seung-gil only hung out and occasionally took part because of Phichit.

Who, up until that very moment, has had his head buried in his phone. As per usual. Who, up until that very moment, hasn’t said a single word or contributed a single idea. Which is about as far from usual as Phichit could get. “Don’t worry about it.”

Seven heads turn in tandem towards the boy, who’s wearing a shit-eating grin that turns Yuri’s stomach. Once, Phichit had smiled like that before slamming an entire bottle of 151 in front of him and challenging him to a shot competition (both of them had ended up in the hospital needing their stomachs pumped). Once, Phichit had smiled like that before taking out the biggest, broadest, _scariest_ guy Yuri had ever seen in derby without breaking a sweat (that time, only the dude had ended up in the hospital with multiple fractured ribs and, word was, he ended up in therapy because of Phichit). That smile is _devilish_.

“What did you do.” It’s a statement that’s laced with a sort of tired acceptance Yuri never knew himself capable of until meeting Phichit Chulanont. Yuri feels the headache that’s been brewing since his confusing confrontation with Otabek the other night come to full fruition under the absolutely diabolical cackling coming from across the table.

Phichit waves his phone, opened to a long message chain, in front of their faces.

“Cashed in on a favor.”

* * *

_Cashed in on a favor_ meant that Phichit pulled out blackmail on Leo de la Iglesia from Freshman year and threatened to release it to the general public if Leo didn’t plant the bright and totally originally idea of approaching them for an Angels vs Rollers match into JJ’s head.

Phichit is a truly terrifying force to be reckoned with.

The dirty tactics must work, though, as Yuri’s phone is ringing off the hook the next morning. He grumbles, rubs sleep from his eyes, blindly feels around with his free hand for the phone buried beneath his blankets. He finally extracts it and answers without being able to make out the blurry numbers on the screen.

“Huh?” He has to clear his throat more than a few times to manage true speech, but manages to get out a half-way acceptable greeting.

“Plisetsky! Kitten!” Once. _Once at a party_ , in high school no less, Yuri had drunkenly laughed when JJ Leroy called him that _stupid fucking name_ and he hasn’t stopped since. Not for the first time, Yuri wonders if it can be considered pre-meditated if it’s also a crime of passion.

“Leroy, it is—” he pauses, squints across the room at his digital clock, and groans, burying his face back into his pillow, “ _seven in the fucking morning_. What the _fuck_ do you want?”

“Put the claws away, Princess. I’m here with a business opportunity.” Yuri mumbles at this new round of obnoxious nicknames but doesn’t interrupt further despite the pause JJ takes to give him an opportunity to do just that. “I had a great idea last night that I thought I should pass by you.” He pauses again, the silence this time heavy with expectation.

Yuri doesn’t rise to the bait, instead making a loud show of sucking the sleep from his teeth. JJ sighs. “Do you want to set up a match between our teams?” He’s pouting. Yuri can’t even see the guy and knows that he’s pouting.

Yuri takes his time hmming and umming and making a big fuss about checking their upcoming calendar (completely, devastatingly empty, of course; with the Rollers demolishing the underground circuit, the rest of the teams have taken time off to hide their tails and work on their form). The minutes pass with him pointedly avoiding a clear answer and he can hear JJ’s patience thinning.

“I mean, I _guess_ that would be alright. I’ll have to talk to the team, of course, but…” Yuri rolls his eyes to the ceiling at the celebratory whoop JJ lets out. “It’s not a definite, Leroy. We’ll still have to talk cuts, especially if you’re going to insist on tickets for this thing.” The words feel dirty in his mouth. The very thought of charging people for more than the cost to drink and gamble makes him feel like a goddamn traitor. But they’re in Roller territory with this match and Yuri knows that he has to concede on _some_ of his morals to make this happen.

“Of course.” JJ’s beaming. Yuri can feel it through the phone. He scowls purely out of spite. “By the way, I’m giving your number to Otabek okay text me whatever you guys decide talk to you later byeeee!” And JJ hangs up just like that, leaving Yuri to stare at his blackened phone screen and ponder all of the ways he could rid the world of that Canadian menace.

* * *

It takes all of three minutes to deliver the news later at the rink and have the team swear to build a shrine to Phichit with all of their winnings from the match. Phichit blushes and insists that it’s not necessary, but Yuri hears him outlining the exact arrangement of the candles to Yuuri seconds later.

(It’s fine, he deserves it.)

The mood has lifted significantly from the previous few days and their practice is tight, together, and next to flawless. Georgi only knocks into Christophe once and Viktor keeps his Yuuri-ogling to an absolute minimum. The entire team is vibrating with the battle on the horizon, none more than Yuri Plisetsky who can’t wait to shove their skills in the face of one Otabek Altin.

Who, much to his confused dismay, texts him at the tail-end of practice as Yuri is swiping sweat off of his forehead and peeling his damp t-shirt from his skin in the locker room.

 **> > 11:21 pm**  
**UNKNOWN**  
    Hey.  
    This is Otabek, by the way.

 **< <11:22 pm**  
     ok????????

Yuri resists the urge to ask why he would give a fuck.  He’s already furious at JJ for giving out his number without asking, especially to his newest and ultimate rival, _especially_ when JJ shouldn’t even have it in the first place but, again, small mistakes at parties years ago that Yuri still regrets. The smart thing to do would be to block both of their numbers and be done with it.

Yuri saves the number. (Just in case.)

 **> >11:25 pm**  
**ALTIN**  
     Okay.  
     Heard we’re going to be facing off.  
     That’ll be cool.

What’s wrong with this kid? Why does he text like a 55-year-old mother?  Yuri growls, tearing open the velcro on his wrist brace with his teeth while he furiously types a response.

 **< <11:27 pm**  
     if u think its cool to get beat then like  
     sure it’ll be cool

 **> >11:28 pm**  
**ALTIN**  
     It might be cool to get beaten. You’ll have to tell me how it feels.  
     ;)

Yuri shouldn’t rise to the bait. He knows this. He knows that he’ll just be giving JJ and Otabek and the rest of the Rollers the satisfaction of knowing they got to him and that’s something that’s almost worse than getting beaten by them. _Almost_.

Determined, Yuri punches the power button on his phone and sets it on the other side of the bench while he finishes dressing down. Mila’s screeching with Christophe about something he’s shown her on instagram, Minako, Georgi, and Viktor are talking strategy, Phichit is delving deeper into the logistics of his shrine with Seung-gil, and Yuri is pretending that he doesn’t care about the text message sitting on his phone.

Which is sort of hard to do when he _definitely_ cares about it.

He manages to hold out until he’s on his way home with Viktor chatting away about the guidelines they’re going to have to set with JJ and his crew before officially announcing the match. He manages to hold out until they’re almost to Yuri’s tiny apartment and he swears to himself that he’s only checking to see if he has any other notifications. He opens his phone, frowning, and decides that a small, _small_ message won’t do any harm.

 **< <11:47 pm**  
     youre on altin

 **> >11:48 pm**  
**ALTIN**  
     Looking forward to it, Plisetsky.

That’s the last text message Yuri receives from the mysterious and frustrating man and he counts it as a blessing. He doesn’t need the rest of that team playing mind games with him when he’s already having to converse with JJ semi-regularly to keep the plans set for the match:  

Two weeks to prepare, as per JJ’s request. (Yuri’s smug with the thought that they need that long to get ready to face the Angels.) It’ll take place at the Rollers’ home rink near campus to provide extra seating for the crowd that will inevitably be drawn, but the Angels will provide one of the refs to keep things fair and unbiased. Profit splits will be 65/35 with the bulk for the winner and all expenses for the event itself will be covered by the Rollers. Yuri argues that that’s fair because it’s _their_ rink and _they’re_ hosting and it was _their_ idea (quote, unquote), but really he just likes seeing JJ stuggle between being a gracious host and providing too much for the competition. In the end, he concedes, along with Yuri’s demand that the Angels get to use the home locker room.

The half dozen conversations don’t entirely demolish Yuri’s soul. Yuri would even hazard to say that, at times, they bordered on tolerable. Not out loud, of course. Out loud, he bitches about JJ as much as usual if not more to make up for his own traitorous notions. JJ Leroy, _tolerable_? Laughable.

Everything is ironed out in fine detail a week before the Big Match. Much to Yuri’s chagrin, the Rollers have begun spreading fliers across every surface in Detroit which shouldn’t be possible considering how _big_ the city is, but Seung-gil comes into the rink for practice and drops a crumpled flier into Phichit’s lap, muttering vaguely about how he found it all the way in Ann Arbor.

There’s a ripple of nerves through the team as they collectively realize how big this thing is getting. They’ve faced off against the Rollers before but it’s never been this put together with this much thought and planning and _PR_ for fuck’s sake and, for the first time since sealing the deal, Yuri is worried that they might be making a _huge_ mistake. It’d be one thing to lose against them on their own terms, but this is different. This is _big_.

“Okay, back to practice,” Viktor finally asserts after too many tense moments spent bouncing an increasingly alarmed look between them. “Lilia will be here tomorrow to help us and you know how upset she’ll be if we’re not up to her standards.”

 _We’re never up to her standards_ , Yuri thinks, somewhere between fond of and annoyed by the severe woman.

They try, though. Driven by those nerves and the (very real) fear of Lilia Baranovskaya’s wrath, they push themselves harder than they have in months. Every muscle in Yuri’s legs scream before they even hit the halfway mark in practice and his ribs are blooming blue and purple by break. As he gulps down water, he thanks his lucky stars that this is going on during a light workload at school. Trying to balance double, _triple_ training and his regular amount of homework would definitely kill him before they even made it to the match.

Not that that regular amount of homework would be anywhere _close_ to getting done. Yuri has his priorities and they are not in school, no matter how much Viktor bitches at him to focus on his degree. Frankly, it’s not anywhere as important as derby. (Yuri pretends he doesn’t feel his grandfather rolling over in his grave at that thought.)

The days pass with red x’s marked on calendars and more bumps, bruises, and split lips than Yuri can count on all of his fingers and toes. He’s sleeping maybe five hours a night between the schoolwork, regular work at Viktor’s, and triple overtime at the rink dodging between kids skating during normal hours. He can’t remember the last time he’s put in this much work.

It does nothing to unclench the knot in his stomach.

It’s not that he doesn’t believe in himself or his team; he does. Of course he does. They’ve beaten the Rollers before and they can beat them again. It’s not like them burning through the underground teams or one new kid can throw off the balance _that_ much. This certainty that he forces upon himself doesn’t stop the worrying ache that builds and builds and builds until Yuri wants to split open his own skull and dig it out until he’s all brass and spite.

The day’s upon them before he can gather the proper tools to do just that. He settles for fury alone.

 **> >1:24 pm**  
**DIPSHIT LEROY**  
     See you tonight, Princess ;)

 **> >4:14 pm**  
**ALTIN**  
     Good luck.

* * *

 Night has long since fallen when the caravan of cars belonging to Arsenal’s Angels pulls into the parking lot of the kitschy, _clean_ rink. It’s packed. _Packed_. Yuri doesn’t think that he’s ever seen so many cars for a match before and Viktor’s low, impressed whistle agrees. There’s a line wrapping around the entire building and spilling into the parking lot and they have to elbow and push through what must be _hundreds_ of people to make it to the entrance.

At least there’ll be a good profit to bring home to Yuuko and Takeshi, regardless of the outcome.

Yuri doesn’t want to think about the outcome.

His limbs are having a hard time maneuvering through the tears in his jersey. His fingers feel numb and slick against the laces of his skates. He’d forgotten to bring something other than knee-high socks and the backs of his knees are already sweating when he goes to tighten his kneepads.

The rest of the team is all but silent. Viktor’s been mumbling quietly to himself since entering the locker room but other than that, the only thing breaking the thick atmosphere is the shuffling of clothing and Phichit’s fingers tapping on his phone.

There’s a knock on the door and the MC sticks his head in without waiting for an answer. “You guys are good to come out for a short warm-up. The crowd hasn’t filled in yet and the Rollers already took their spin around.” Yuri gives him a terse nod in response, grabs his helmet, and shoves it over his uneven braid.

No words pass between them. The unease is palpable.

They file out onto the track for their warmup. Only a few spectators have been let in so far and are lounging in what would be the suicide seats if not for the bars set up for safety. Yuri has to admit that the rink is nice. The track is all even, gleaming wood that looks like it’s never been skated on. It smells like fresh popcorn and plastic, not old sweat and cheap nacho cheese. Everything is too clinical. Too commercial.

The refs are lazily drifting around the inner track, chatting to each other as the Angels make their easy laps around. Yuri tries not to focus on the match and its implications, just the easy slide of the track beneath his skates and the familiar way his muscles bunch and ease.

He locks eyes with Mila once on their circuits. She grimaces and turns her gaze elsewhere.

Their warmup is simultaneously much too short and much too long. With instructions to wait until they hear their team name to make their entrance, they single file back into the locker room which seems even smaller than before upon their return. Yuri leans against a wall, letting the coolness of the stone bleed through his jersey into his overheated skin.

The MC has starting speaking, _booming_ , over the PA system and the crowd booms in kind. Yuri lets the noise fade into the background. He toes at the cement floor with the rubber of his skate, brows drawn together as he tries to find his focus.

From the other side of the wall, he hears the MC getting ready to introduce the teams. As agreed, the Rollers would enter first (so as to “hype the crowd into a _frenzy_ ” as JJ had insisted), say their piece about whatever the fuck they wanted to say ( _that_ part, Yuri hadn’t bothered listening to), and give way for the Angels’ introductions.

At the first mention of the Royal Rollers, Yuri blows a hard breath through his nose, steps away from the wall, and faces his team. He tries to wipe the scowl from his face. He fails.

“Okay, guys.” Usually, someone else would step up for the Big Motivational Speech, but most of his teammates look sick enough as it is. He wishes for the millionth time that Lilia would come to the locker rooms with them for this sort of thing but she firmly believed in watching from a distance and hadn’t been the speech giving coach since day one.

“I know you’re all nervous.” Seung-gil snorts. Yuri glares. “And that’s _fine_. This isn’t the first time we’ve done this, it’s not going to be the last time. Nothing’s different than usual.” He tries to ignore the defeated air. He tries to convince himself that it’s true.

But Yuri and everyone else in that stinking locker room know that it is _desperately_ different. The Royal Rollers stepped up to challenge the underground in the most full frontal attack probably _ever_ and it was obvious from the start that their major target was the Angels. This is more than a match; pride is on the line. Pride in their sport, pride in their team, pride in their _art_ , pride that the Rollers have been trying to break since day fucking one.

Yuri will die before he lets them succeed at their stupid game.

“Don’t do anything different. _Nothing is different_.” His fingers are curled into the front of his jersey, clutching at their team’s crest above his heart. “We’ll go out there and kick their asses into next fucking Tuesday and make them wish they’d never stepped into _our game_.”

As far as motivational speeches go, Yuri knows it isn’t the best. He could say something about teamwork or friendship or about how hard they’ve been working to win this or about how the only thing that really matters is that they have fun but he knows that’s bullshit. This is about winning. This is about stomping JJ and his elitist shithead team into the very track they skate on.

Besides, it’s what the team wants to hear. _Needs_ to hear. The mood has lightened; Phichit is wearing his dangerous grin, Minako is snapping her Getting Real™ gloves against her wrist, even Seung-gil’s eyes burn with the thirst for competition. The nerves are still tight in Yuri’s stomach but he knows that they have this.

They _will win this_.

He holds onto that thought, shoves its burning heat into his chest and lets it spread through his veins until he’s engulfed. The MC is shouting their team name and they collectively burst through the door. They’re rowdy, they’re loud, they’re vulgar and the crowd (the _big ass_ crowd) eats it up and spits it back in the familiar way that reminds Yuri that this is still home. A better built and kept home, but _home_.

Pointedly, he ignores the Rollers and their starting lineup (JJ on jam, Otabek on pivot, Nekola and the Crispino twins on block, not that he notices because _pointedly ignoring_ ) and lines up at the second start line. He feels JJ’s grin, keeps his eyes trained on the backs of his teammates, and shoves his mouth guard in with a snarl.

First whistle. Yuri counts the heartbeats, over loud in his ears, and takes off the exact moment that second whistle is blown. He leaves JJ in the dust almost immediately and easily takes the status of lead jammer with his clean pass through the pack. They’re running a familiar play, one they’ve run a thousand _million_ times, one that Yuri knows like the back of his hand and could skate with his eyes closed. He has, once, and succeeded in a grand slam.

The Rollers mix it up as Yuri reaches back around to the edge of the pack. They’re interfering in the Angels’ play in a methodical manner as if they were roller derby robots. Yuri’s eyebrows pull together and he eyes their movements, trying to find an opening between the clash that’s taking place. He manages to slip by one of the twins and is curving around Mila’s left side when the ref’s whistle blows sharply.

“Penalty on 030, Vitya the Defeatya. Cutting the track.” _Seriously_? Cutting the track? Everyone cuts the fucking track and doesn’t get called on it, but there’s Viktor slinking off to the penalty box. There’s a mixture of cheers and boos from the crowd at the development but Yuri doesn’t have time to dwell on it. The jam’s still on; not long enough to get Viktor back in but long enough for him to keep JJ from grabbing more points.

It’s a touch more difficult to maneuver when one of the team’s best blockers is benched and Yuri barely manages to scrape by another two points before the end of the first jam. He’s panting, desperately wiping at the sweat dripping into his eyes.

The scoreboard reads **4:3** in favor of the Rollers.

The second jam has barely started and JJ has rolled through to the front of the pack while Yuri’s boxed in at the back. Ten seconds and Viktor’s skating around the outside to catch up. He slides in just beside Yuri, forces a path for him, and forces him through with a powerful shove to his back.

It’s not enough to quite catch up and JJ’s scored two points by the time he does, another two in the time that Yuri takes to score one and he’s tapping his hips, calling an end to the round.

They’re losing. _They’re losing_. It’s only the second jam, Yuri reminds himself. It’s fine. They have plenty of time to catch up.

Except, they _keep scoring_. The Rollers are even better than they were at the match the Angels scoped them out at. They’re communicating with little hand signals and eye shifts and blocking every one of the Angels’ patented moves _._ They keep scoring and the Angels keep getting bullshit penalties called on them that make Yuri wonder if JJ paid off their ref to be ridiculously strict. Maybe he should have found someone with the technical skill to do the same to the Rollers instead of the burnt out hippie who refs most of their matches.

JJ’s smug grin keeps growing and Yuri’s murderous scowl keeps deepening.

Even more frustrating is that he keeps making eye contact with Otabek Fucking Altin with every pass through the pack and he’s not smiling like the rest of his team but his eyes are glittering and Yuri wants to punch him square in the nose. It feels like he’s being made fun of, openly mocked on _his turf_. It throws him off his game in more ways that it should.

It’s the last jam of the first bout. The Angels are trailing by six points, which isn’t even close to impossible to make up, but morale is falling. Phichit taps out of jammer duties and jerks a finger to trade out with Yuri for their coup d’etat. Yuri needs to score big.

By some miracle of god, he _does_. He takes lead jammer, skates out a grand slam with an _inspired_ whip from Minako and Georgi, and is throwing himself back around the track at a speed previously unknown to him.

Then the whistle’s blowing _again_ and Yuri can’t hear who got called on what through the rushing in his ears but Mila is wrenching off her helmet and bowing up to the ref the Rollers brought with murder written in her eyes. She advances on him, graceful despite punching her skates into the ground with each step, and shoves a finger into his chest, screaming a long stream of curse words that makes even Yuri Plisetsky’s ears turn red. The ref is not impressed.

Yuri sees him say, “That’s it, you’re benched,” and Mila takes a well-aimed but poorly-timed swing at him with her loosened helmet. She only misses because Viktor’s cut in and grasps her around her waist, pulling her, _literally kicking and screaming_ , from the track and to the locker room where she’ll be forced to spend the rest of the match. Which isn’t how things _should_ be going as this is only Mila’s third penalty. Though, Yuri guesses, attacking the ref probably doesn’t help things.

(He’s still considering doing the same.)

“And Arsenal’s Angels lose 80085, Baba-d Bitch, for the rest of the match. Bad luck, guys.” Or maybe it would be more prudent to turn his rage to the sing-songing bastard MCing. JJ would rue his staff choices until his end days.

He doesn’t score again in the remaining seconds of the jam.

 _So much for my inspirational speech_. Yuri ruefully thinks as he kicks his skates off in the locker room the second they’re dismissed for halftime. His helmet joins them on the ground and he scrubs his still-gloved hands over his face. He relishes in the rough contact, prays for it to bring him some sense of clarity.

Christophe breaks the silence first. “We’re not doing great.” He doesn’t sound particularly dejected, just factual, as though he were mentioning the weather.

“No shit,” Yuri shoots back and that’s all the team can manage for their break. Things look bleak and they all know it; Mila’s out for the rest of the game, Yuri and Phichit can barely make it through the tight-knit pack, and the looming possibility for their first loss against the Royal Rollers is becoming a physical presence over their shoulders.

They’re out of tricks. The end is nigh.

The Rollers, however, still have an entire _book_ full of tricks. They’re barely managing to keep ahead of the Angels (a blessing that Yuri promises will make him believe in God again) but they’re pulling out shit that Yuri’s never even seen before. Just when he thinks he’s got them figured out, they’ll switch things up in a heartbeat. Yuri can’t keep up. He can’t read their movements or their plays or their intentions and it’s making his brain melt out of his ears.

Things _really_ come to a head when Yuri scrapes up a few points on them and notices Guang-Hong, the Rollers’ alternate jammer, passing his _fucking star to Otabek Altin._ Yuri hasn’t someone pass the panty in _months_ , especially with how proud the jammers in the area are, but here’s this Ji kid passing it off to Otabek’s helmet like it’s nothing.

Yuri screams behind his guard. He struggles to refocus on keeping his lead, nearly tripping over Christophe’s legs in his rush to make it through the pack again. He cuts through in one piece and keeps his eyes trained on the track in front of him instead of the man coming up fast on his left. He doesn’t even notice that it’s the _new jammer_ Altin. Doesn’t even notice at all.

_You’re a fucking liar, Plisetsky._

He’s shook by Altin’s presence and he’s not convincing anyone otherwise. It doesn’t get any better the closer he pulls to him.

Otabek smells strongly of sweated-off deodorant and cheap hair gel and feet that have been crunched into skates for too long and Yuri shouldn’t be able to tell through his heavy panting but it’s like he’s become hypersensitive to this dude—

_(assessing the competition)_

—and damnit if he doesn’t assess every goddamn hair on his head as Yuri slides into him when they reach the back of the pack, realizing too late the damage that it would do. Yuri tries to catch himself, to turn his collision into something useful instead of detrimental, but he loses himself in the slick of his skin against Otabek’s and _shit_ if it isn’t smooth and soft and—

He’s tumbling over his own skates out of bounds. Otabek’s jaw is set against a poorly hidden grin as he gives Yuri just enough of a nudge to keep his momentum taking him further out and Yuri is so furious he could spit fire because how _dare_ Otabek look _good_ flashing a thumbs up at him.

It’s definitely not enough of a distraction that he should slam his face into the barrier trying to regain his balance—but he does. Copper floods in around his mouth guard and gushes down his face and he loses track of where he is for a good ten count before there are strong arms pulling him from the ground he didn’t realize he’d fallen to. “Are you okay?”

It takes him an embarrassing amount of time to process the question. It takes him even longer to answer because, objectively, he’s _fine_. He’s had worse. But if the alarmed cries coming from around him are any sort of indicator, he probably looks, subjectively, _terrible_.

He manages to focus his slot-machine eyes on Otabek. The one who’s holding him, Otabek. Not Viktor or Christophe or even _JJ_ , but the one who’s entire fault this disaster is. Otabek _fucking_ Altin. Yuri wrenches away with a growl, spits his red-stained mouth guard into his hand, and uses the other to pull the collar of his jersey up over his face. The fabric immediately soaks through onto his fingers.

“I’m _fine_.”

“You don’t look fine, man.” Otabek’s eyebrows are pulled together. He’s watching Yuri with a laser focus that makes him squirm in discomfort. He’s used to this. The mess, the pain, not the undivided attention of a rival.

Yuri shakes his shoulders and turns back to the track and his teammates’ concerned eyes. “I said that I’m _fine_. Let’s finish the fucking jam, Altin.” He pauses, throws a grin back at him that shows every one of his bloodied teeth. “Unless you’re afraid of getting your ass kicked after all.”

The tension of Otabek’s concern disappears with a quirk of his eyebrow and the slightest draw up of his lips. “Let’s go, Plisetsky.”

Yuri wishes he could say that that was enough to pull the win. He wishes that the embers that burst into a full inferno at the challenge in Otabek’s tone was all he needed to drive his team to victory. He wishes. But wishes are for fairy tales and actions are for derby and his actions just aren’t good enough.

Or maybe it’s that the Rollers’ are just _better_.

He skates with his entire heart in it. He skates faster and smoother and more violently than he’s ever skated before. He slams the Crispinos straight into the same bars he’d bashed his face on without even glancing back at them, manages to connect a solid elbow to JJ without getting called by the refs, even manages to lap Otabek at one point during another of his stints as pivot jammer. He doesn’t do _poorly_ by any means, and neither do the rest of the team, but it’s not enough to kick past the Rollers.

Even on the last jam in the last seconds when they’re neck and neck and Yuri can see his path to victory laid out by the overly-bedazzled purple jerseys of his teammates, he can’t get around a last second change-up by the Rollers that has Otabek and Emil sandwiching him off the track and blocking him long enough for the refs to blow their whistles and end the game.

The final score reads as **155:152** , Rollers.

Arsenal’s Angels will leave that pristine rink as losers.

Yuri’s gone before the cheering reaches its crescendo. He stops in the locker room just long enough to grab his shit and books it before he has to have any sort of contact with the team he let down. If he’d done better, fought harder, they would’ve won. They would’ve won and kept their pride and defended the honor of underground derby, but he’d fucked it up by letting the Rollers get the better of them.

It’s _his fault_ that his best wasn’t good enough and he knows it and can’t face it yet. He needs time to lick his wounds and dissect everything that went wrong so next time he won’t lose by being distracted by dark-haired new kids and sudden skill where there used to be none.

In the back of the cab on the way home, he picks at the blood that’s dried down his neck. He digs his fingers into the skin and promises, _swears_ , that next time

(and there _will_ be a next time)

he’ll be the one bringing his team out on top. There’s no other option.

  **> >12:35 am**  
**ALTIN**  
     Great skate tonight, Yuri.  
     See you next time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so an explanation on passing the star/passing the panty can be found [here](https://derbystein.wordpress.com/2015/08/09/passing-the-panty/) bc every time I tried typing one, it came out sounding weird and fake. I promise it exists I swear I’m not making all of this shit up. If there’s anything else I should link here, pls tell me? I’ll track down sources better than my six pages of notes that only I can decipher.
> 
> And, as always, come hang out with me on [tumblr](https://94mercy.tumblr.com) and school me on derby xoxo


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